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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24036064">Gay Twilight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/renardroi/pseuds/isengrim'>isengrim (renardroi)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Injury, M/M, Selkies, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Tags May Change, Vampires, twilight but like its gay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:27:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,536</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24036064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/renardroi/pseuds/isengrim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>this is just twilight but if it was something that I would want to read in the year of our lord 2020, which means generally monsters are more monster-like, I'm not tryna do any weird cultural appropriation with first nations, and everyone is queer. I cannot emphasize enough how gay I want this to be. I read the genderswapped version of twilight several months ago and all I took away from it is that Beau is a trans ass name, and I love Beau being a guy who is into being picked up and carried.  </p>
<p>the cast, as it stands right now is:<br/>Bella Swan -&gt; Beau Harrier<br/>Jacob -&gt; Olive<br/>Edward -&gt; Caolán</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. TEMPORARY PRELUDE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>my original intention was to rewrite beat for beat the first twilight book, but I've already failed just in the first chapter so I am sorry about that. I'm just kind of floundering trying to figure things out, and I pretty much have no idea where the story is going to end up. I have sort of vague arcs in my brain, and the remade characters slot into not dissimilar roles, but just be aware that things are subject to change or just editing for details. the rewritten prelude is included, but please keep in mind that I don't even know if it's applicable because I don't know where the story ends. </p>
<p>also much love to my good friend and very sweet beta reader, my friend Micah. they're currently going over chapter one, and I need to ask them if they want to be exposed alongside with me. if they do, I'll for sure link their social media somewhere.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’d given a great deal of thought to how I would die. By the time that I had made it to the teen years, I had already developed a fairly morbid personality - that’s what happens when you have a cop and a nurse for parents, I guess. Still, in all of my angst-ridden daydreaming, I don’t think I had ever imagined it exactly like this. </p><p>I stared down the long room, into the eyes of the hunter, and he looked pleasantly back at me, unmoved. </p><p>Dying in the place of someone else, someone I loved, had to count for something. It was noble. Probably. If anyone was going to pass judgement or weigh my heart, surely they would take into consideration these extenuating circumstances, and dying bravely would count for something. </p><p>I knew that if I’d never moved back in with my mom, I wouldn’t be facing death now, but even then I couldn’t find any reason to regret the decision. Even terrified, I felt no remorse. Maybe that would be the thing to tip the scales against me; utter remorselessness. All of the people I had put in danger, the risks I had taken, but I would be stubborn until the end that it was worth it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dog Days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dog fraud, cupcakes, and California.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW/CW's at end of chapter. </p><p>I'm posting this without the approval of my beta reader kind of just because I want to get this posted and over with so that I can move on to the next chapter a bit, so I may do a little bit of editing, but for the most part this is how I want the first chapter. Changes to Dog Days will probably only include grammar, spelling, and very slight sentence restructuring moving forward. if I change anything huge, I'll probably make a note of it in updates.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>My dad drove me to the airport, having taken a sick day for the opportunity to sit in three hours of traffic in order to say goodbye. In LA, it had to be well into the 80’s already, and not yet ten in the morning, but the windows were rolled up tight and the rickety A/C in my dad’s 1980’s compact was doing its best to keep the heat at bay. It wasn’t quite enough to keep me from sweating in what I had picked out as my comfortable airport outfit, so after we had gotten into the car it had taken me all of ten minutes to ditch my sweatshirt, tossed into the backseat on top of my backpack. The plain shirt underneath it was just fine, but despite the dry heat of California, my cheap joggers were starting to feel more like a Florida swamp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, even if it was hot here, it wouldn’t be in Northern California. They had seasons out there for some reason, and although Los Angeles wasn’t going to see real rain for months, the forecast called for an actual downpour and even lightning out in Crescent City, around the time that I was supposed to arrive. The city was what my dad frequently described as picturesque gloom, any time of the year other than midsummer. It had pretty beaches, with endless flat sand, and an array of neat little rocky outcrops, but the persistent rain during the wet seasons made everything much more dour looking. They’d even had a few minor tsunamis in the area, apparently. Even when it wasn’t raining, being on the water meant that the place was buffeted by coastal winds constantly. This was the town that my mother had escaped to when I was four years old, fleeing north from the capital while my dad fled south. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For ten years, I spent every summer with my mom in Crescent City, living in a tiny town and watching my friends post on the internet about getting together for summer parties. Near the end of the last summer, the last I would spend there for a while, I had locked myself into my room for nearly two weeks, and refused to come out, in a fit of teenage angst. Both of my parents had understandably freaked out, and I had retreated Southern California to live permanently with my dad. After that my relationship with my mother had degraded considerably. We barely spoke, and when we did it was during the couple of holidays that I spent with her and her family in Sacramento. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hadn’t really visited her in four and a half years - and the idea of being in that same house, the same room, threatened to give me a migraine if I stopped to think about it for too long. Moving in felt like returning to the scene of the crime; like I was climbing through a window in the dark to revisit the spot where I had murdered my mother and I’s relationship in cold blood. Ever since dad had paid for the plane tickets, I’d thrown myself into the task of reading the longest books I could find on my library app, and I stubbornly refused to pick my head up until I finished it. I had spent the drive trying to get through the second half of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lilith’s Brood</span>
  </em>
  <span>, with mixed success. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beau.” My dad elbowed me gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, I would make an exception to the book rule only so that I could actually get on the plane. That would be it, though. I glanced up from my tablet, looking at the lines of cars in front and left of us, and then to the right where the airport loomed and curved around into the distance. I hate airports, I realized. One too many missed flights, and a handful of hours spent crying in airport bathrooms would do that to you, but I suspected that everyone hated airports. They were like malls, or the absolute worst parts of malls, anyways. And worse, you weren’t allowed to leave until someone told you to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shoved the tablet that I had been reading on into my backpack, my carry-on for the flight, and at the same time my dad started to sigh, trying to work up to saying something. I had a feeling that I knew what he wanted to say, but it’d been a long car ride here, and a long morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have everything?” He asked instead, and I nodded. Even if I didn’t it would be too late to go back and get it now. Sitting in the car, it’s hard to avoid eye contact, so I caught a glimpse of the wide-eyed worry he was wearing on his face before he could turn away and start to fiddle with the A/C settings. It was a weird shock to see that sort of thing coming from him. He had spent weeks, brave-facing the whole thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the past couple of years, I had also started to look more like him. I’d been awkwardly tall and broad-shouldered, but very dainty for much of middle school and the start of high school. Now that I had grown into it a little, we were almost the same height, built similarly, and the biggest differences between use - besides age - was haircuts. He kept his hair cropped short, nearly military, and mine was a bit more unruly and curly. And of course, my dad could actually grow a full beard. Still, I knew that we frowned the same way, and I could imagine how we looked, sitting in the car and watching each other with mirrored expressions of wide-eyed worry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shouldn’t worry. My dad was an adult, and usually very capable of taking care of himself. At least he had Anna, now, to help with all of the little things that I used to do. They had been dating for well over a year now, and she had already replaced me as the food delivery service for days when he was on-call, and didn’t have time to grab a meal before running to the hospital. After I left for Crescent City, I was giving it a few months, or half a year max, before Anna moved in or vice versa. My dad hadn’t said anything to confirm my suspicions, but I could see how close the two of them were. Part of what had given me some confidence in my decision to move out was that she would be there for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” I said suddenly, “I should go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you need to fly back, or just visit, you tell me. Okay?” My dad spoke quickly, like he’d been waiting for a cue to speak. “You aren’t moving to Europe, so it’s not hard to come home if you need to. Or want to. There’s plenty of other high schools in the county, or I have family in -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He persisted, putting his hand on my shoulder carefully. “If you need anything at all; a break, lunch money, a co-signer for a car, just text me. Or call. I want to help.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.” I muttered, embarrassed, while I picked at imaginary fluff on my pants. He’d already done plenty for me. “I - I will. I mean, if I do, I will. But it’s going to be fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t sound convincing even to my ears, but it seemed to make him feel better. He backed off finally, and fished out a few spare bills from his wallet to hand to me. “Here. Since we didn’t stop for coffee this morning.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hugged him, and then I took my bags out of the back of the car and left to catch my plane. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long wait, it was a dreadful hour and a half flight from Los Angeles out to Oakland, and then a two hour wait for a much smaller plane to pick me up, and then a final hour and a half flight into Del Norte. I hated every minute of it, and managed to run out of reading material during the layover. By the time that I found myself sitting on the curb, waiting for my mother, I found that I was just a little too tired to work myself into an anxious mess about being alone with my mother for the first time in years. I just couldn’t bring myself to worry about not having extended family members to hide behind, nor cats to pet. It was just my mother in the truck that pulled up to the curb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mom had been very nice about the whole moving thing, although quiet. Through the whole process, she had never asked too many questions, never pushed for too much from me. It was the kind of quiet that I suspected came from a deep, underlying fear that if she was too demanding or moved too quickly, then all of our plans would shatter like glass. It was my fault. I’d made her feel like she couldn’t ask to spend time with me, because if she did I would run screaming into the hills and never come back. Despite all of her composure over phone calls, when she jumped out of the car, all dressed up in slacks and a nice blouse, it was easy to see that she couldn’t contain her eagerness in person. She didn’t hug me right away, but I could tell that she wanted to when she hovered next to me during our hellos. Then she bent down to pick up my suitcases and hefted them into the bed of the truck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice to have you here, Beau.” She spoke slowly, like she was double checking every word before she said them. Then everything else came out in a rush. “You’ve changed so much. Are you taller? Didn’t you bring a jacket with you? How’s Ross?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shrugged, looking down at the sweater I was wearing and my backpack at my feet. “I packed one in a suitcase. And dad’s good, he’s the same as always.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I only had a few bags with me. I had never been the kind to hoard clothes, so my closet hadn’t really needed to be downsized much for moving. Really, I hated shopping. I tended to keep a few precious clothing items, and a handful of basics, wearing them until they were thoroughly unusable. So I had thrown out some threadbare shirts and unsalvageable jeans in order to make room for extra jackets and rain boots, and all of it had managed to fill only a suitcase and a half. The remaining half of suitcase had been filled with my electronics, notebooks, and stupid knick-knacks and memorabilia from home, and my backpack had been allocated to toiletries and a change of clothes, just in case. My bags barely took up a fifth of the truck bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I almost expected you to show up in the police car.” I joked, a bit halfheartedly, and then hastily added, “But I prefer the truck. I like the truck.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We stood across from each other silently. This sucked. We were terrible at talking to each other. I stood on the curb, hungry and tired, trying to come up with something to say that wasn’t a half-assed apology or worse, and it seemed like my mother was doing the same. After too long of a pause, she looked down at her watch, and then to the horizon, and firmly declared that we should leave before it got to raining. I gratefully climbed into the passenger seat of the truck, not one to pass up the opportunity to avoid an emotional conversation, and settled in to spend the fourteen minute drive home idly checking my phone while half-asleep. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Fourteen minutes was all it took to drive from the airport, into town, and then right back out into the outskirts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all the dedication that my mother had for this city, she was serious about having downtime. When she had first moved to Crescent City, she had lived pretty much in the city proper, as close to everything as possible, but after only a couple of years working as a cop, she had packed everything up and essentially moved into the forest. Her house was nestled in between a huge lake to the west, and a state park to the east. Forest came up to the back of the property, and the houses on residential streets out there were practically in their own neighborhoods with how spread out they were. When my mother was at work, she gave it her full attention, but when she was at home it seemed like she just wanted peace and quiet. It was probably why she had insisted on keeping her truck, despite having a cruiser that she could drive around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right about the ten minute mark of our drive, my mother spoke up again, rousing from my sleepy scrolling. She cleared her throat. “So...I wanted to get you something. As a kind of homecoming gift.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mom,” I started, immediately stressed about what she considered a good homecoming gift. I could imagine a variety of terrible ideas, most of which were either embarrassing or required far more responsibility from me than I felt like mustering when I had been in town for less than an hour. I had used all of my responsibility moving north to this sand trap, and I doubted I’d have any more until spring at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you don’t always like gifts, but I never…” She paused, visibly struggling to choose her next words. She drummed her fingers against the steering wheel as she thought. “I didn’t have...the opportunity to support you for some big life things that you did, these past couple of years, and maybe that’s my fault, but i would like to make it up to you if I can.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shrank down in the passenger seat, wishing hard that I could skip this conversation and just be home in Los Angeles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But since you don’t like gifts, I thought I’d let you pick.” She looked over at me hopefully as we turned down a narrow road. I was admittedly surprised by the gesture. Depending on what the options were, I might have the chance to dodge public embarrassment or worse, and that was a rare and exciting opportunity. “I know that you used to walk to school, and that was fine when everything was just a few blocks away, but it’s a bit different here. I know you’re an adult, but I don’t like the idea of you walking through the woods by yourself to get around, and I also know that you don’t want me driving you to school - I was a teenager once, I know how it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you should get a car, but I don’t know if you have any money saved. I know you had mentioned looking for a job in town, but I’m sure it’ll be awhile before you have enough for a car. I’d be surprised if you were secretly loaded, so…” She laughed nervously, and pulled off the road and into her gravel driveway. “I would be more than happy to give you this truck. That’s the first option, but I know it’s kind of an intimidating car, so if you want something different, I’d like to help pay for it. But I’d ask that in the meantime you consider driving the truck to school, just so you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” I sighed in relief, as she parked the car. “If you’re worried about me walking through the woods, I’m surprised you didn’t try to make me take Kyle. I guess I couldn’t take him into the school without a good reason.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mother looked a little too excited about the idea, and jumped on it, clearly eager to get me something that I wanted. “Well, Kyle’s retired now. He’s nearly nine, and he has a couple health problems. Retired police dogs need a lot of special care, so he lives with Farley now, but the place we adopted him from trains dogs for protection as well.We could probably adopt a younger one and get him an informal training permit, so the school could let him in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” I balked at my mother, and gathered up my phone and backpack. “I’m not going to commit some kind of dog fraud just to be able to have a pet at school. Aren’t you supposed to be a cop or something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something like that.” She looked disappointed, but didn’t say anything else as we got out of the car and dragged my suitcases up to the porch. While we had been driving, the rainclouds had gotten bigger, and denser-looking, and we hurried into the house in the hopes of avoiding all of my things getting wet. We stepped into the two bedroom house, lugging slightly damp suitcases from the sprinkling that had started up, and I paused to take in the entrance way. Almost everything looked how I remembered it, with the exception of some lost nostalgic luster and the higher point of view. I hadn’t thought that I had actually gotten much taller, but everything looked a little smaller. Including my mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” she said, gesturing widely at the house, “you still have until Monday to make a decision. And I already made a copy of the truck key for you, so if you just want to borrow it for the first few weeks, that’s perfectly fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.” I shuffled my feet, staring down at the mottled, brick red tiles as she hung up her coat. The decor in the house, I noticed, was unseasonably warm looking. The carpets and walls in the living room to the right, were still that same kind of normal, beige and white colors, but the kitchen and seemingly untouched, unused dining room were cozy looking. The kitchen had the palest of yellow paints on the wall, and gentle copper-touched decor and art prints hung up, my favorite of which was the hammered copper sun that hung in the window over the sink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dining room seemed to be the inverse of the kitchen, with warm maroon walls, and golden accents here and there. But I could tell that it had gotten even less use since I had gone. The only time that it was useful was when my mother had several guests over, otherwise we used the breakfast spot or the living room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t remember the house being cozy or warm, but it was, in a sort of detached way. Like a house that stubbornly wished it was made out of adobe. Nothing about it matched the overcast weather, and it didn’t seem to match my mother’s sensibilities. But maybe I didn’t know what my mother’s sensibilities were. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sighed, and breathed in the lingering smell of brewed coffee. “As much as I like dogs, I don’t know if I have time for one right now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mom laughed, shaking her hair out as she went around the corner into the kitchen. “That’s the sort of thing people my age should be saying, kiddo. You have all the time in the world, especially now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I picked up one of my suitcases and dragged it with me, moving past the kitchen and down the narrow hall towards the bedrooms. The house was arranged in a kind of backwards C-shape, with the kitchen, dining and living rooms on the bottom, the master suite on top, and connecting the two ends were a hallway with the guest bedroom and bathroom. Most of the time, the hallway was cramped and dark but some days, when the sun was just right, the view through the windows into my mother’s hobby garden was very pretty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hobbled past the view, and into the guest bedroom - my bedroom, to dump my stuff. I refused to look around as I tossed my suitcase onto the floor near the closet, for fear of getting distracted before I could grab my suitcase, but even so I could see that the carpeting in the room was freshly vacuumed. It had to have been done this morning, or even just prior to me being picked up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I looped back past the kitchen, my mother called me over with an excited shout, clearly hiding something behind her back. “Hey! Before you start unpacking, I got you something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I groaned, but stepped into the kitchen, letting my gaze wander over the woodgrain on the cabinets and the white countertops. My mom was standing at the breakfast nook, and as I stepped forward she produced a small pastry box with a cupcake in it from behind her. By way of explanation, all she said was, “Since I missed a couple birthdays.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I took the box awkwardly, holding it like glass in my hands and totally unsure of what to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.” I mumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She patted my shoulder, and smiled. “I’m just glad you’re here. If it’s alright, I’m going to go get some groceries so you can have some space to unpack. Text me if you want anything from the store.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, she left. She rolled right back out the front door, and I listened to the rustle of her jacket, the jingle of keys, and the eventual rumbling of the truck engine as she pulled out of the driveway. Even now she wasn’t asking too much of me, and I was extremely grateful for the reprieve, for a chance to get used to being in the house again without so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mom </span>
  </em>
  <span>going on. I carried my cupcake with me as I grabbed my other suitcase, and took them both into the bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With my mother gone, and the door firmly shut, I stood and admired the cleanliness of the room. There wasn’t a speck of dust in sight, which lent some credence to my theory that my mother had cleaned just this morning. It was very neat, as well, but it had never been excessively decorated in here, and there just wasn’t much in the room. The furniture consisted of a plain desk with a couple of drawers, the twin bed, and the chest sitting at the end of it, which had stored toys and books at one point. Now, it was empty. Really the only thing that gave the room personality was the pretty, mottled tan and black pelt that was draped over the chest. Wolf or fox, or something like that - I couldn’t remember exactly, but it had been a gift from one of the few kids I used to hang out with in town. The details of the exchange were hard to recall, but I could remember that she had practically thrown it at me before bolting. We had both been twelve at the time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sat down at my desk, lamenting the shelves of books that I had been forced to leave behind at my dad’s house. Even if I had already read the books, and wasn’t planning on rereading them anytime soon, I still felt like a part of me had been left behind, but it would have been too expensive to fly all of them over. And I’m sure my dad wasn’t very sad about holding them hostage as incentive to come and visit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I ate my cupcake in sullen silence, refreshing my phone every few moments even though I knew that I wouldn’t see anything new. By the time that I finished, the rain was really starting to come down. The sound of it against the hall windows was a strange kind of white noise as I slowly started to unpack all of my clothes and hang them up in the closet. I was finishing setting up my laptop and connecting it to the wifi, when I heard the truck pulling into the driveway again. My mother’s password had changed, but it had taken me about a minute to find it taped to the side of the home phone, which she still had for some reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once most of my stuff had been put away, I ventured out into the kitchen to help put away the last of the groceries, and after that we spent the rest of the afternoon separately. I had originally intended to spend more time with my mother my first day back, but since she and my dad had both mentioned helping me buy a car, I stayed huddled in my bedroom, and spent several hours lazily trawling through the internet to find cars for sale nearby. I didn’t know what I was looking for, besides something cheap and used that could survive some of the dirt and gravel roads around here. The more I thought about trying to drive the truck, the more I hated the idea of it. It was just too bulky, terrifying to maneuver, and took up a massive amount of space on even some of the paved residential roads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t find much. I hadn’t considered how hard it would be to find the right car when I didn’t have the convenience of millions of people living in the same sprawling metropolis as me, eager to dump their terrible gas cars for something electric or new. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of the night I hadn’t come to any clear decision, and I shut my laptop with a frustrated sigh. I didn’t want to let my mood sour so quickly after the move, but the number of things that I weren’t sure would work out, was starting to overwhelm me. I still had a few days, though. Maybe it would sort itself out. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Del Norte High was a quaint school with less than a thousand students in it. It was probably about a third of the size my old high school had been, was one of only two high schools in the entire county it seemed, and strangely Del Norte was sat across the street from the local college. If I followed through with my plan of finishing high school, and going to the college for a bit before transferring, I would apparently end up driving the same route to school for the next three years. It was hard to imagine still being here even a month from now, though, so I tried not to think about it. I was just here to do the last bit of paperwork so that I could transfer in time for the fall semester. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mother had done a lot of the legwork for me, but since I was technically an adult now, I had to catch a ride to the school early in the morning on a Friday to sign a few things and pick up my school ID. Yay. At least school hadn’t technically started yet, so I wasn’t in danger of being mobbed by other students - all of which knew each other quite well, but only knew of me as Officer Harrier’s kid. However, in a city as small as this one, I had no doubt that the administration was going to end up being just as curious. There was also going to be the inevitable questions about why I had missed an entire year of school, and I was not looking forward to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was dropped off at the curb by my mother, who explained apologetically that she had a few errands to run, including stopping by the police station, so she might not be back for another hour. That was fine by me, anyways, since the school hadn’t said how long this whole thing would take. If it only took a few minutes, maybe I’d cross the street and wander through the college campus just to see what there was to see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hesitated near the front doors, shaking a bit of rain from my jacket - brand new, bought specifically for northern California - just so that I could collect myself and watch my mother’s truck drive away, and then I stepped into the school and made a beeline for the teller style windows just inside. There was no one stood at the windows, but I could see someone in the back, going through filing cabinets until the sound of the heavy, metal front door closing alerted her to my presence. She called out, shuffling some papers hurriedly, “One moment! Give me just a moment, and I’ll help you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While she started to put files back in their proper places, I dug my wallet out of my jeans, already anticipating that I would need my driver’s license before the day was out. While I was busy looking for my ID between far too many receipts, the woman, middle-aged and dressed in a semi-casual blouse and skirt, looked up from her work and seemed to realize who I was. The mixture of confusion and recognition was a familiar one by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! You’re Bella; you’re here for your transfer paperwork, right?” She waved and pointed to a door in the room, diagonal from the windows. “Go around to the door, and come in so I can give you everything properly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I did as I was told, already dispirited by the simple interaction. Around the corner was what seemed to be the main hall of the school, with rows and rows of lockers, and doors to classrooms. The door the lady had pointed to was labeled with a small plaque that read “Administration” in white lettering. Just inside was a short row of chairs against the wall, and a counter where paperwork was already being spread out for me. Behind the counter were several desks arranged as if they were cubicles, but without any of the barriers, and all of them empty. There was one other door at the end of the room, with a completely different style of plaque, labelling the principal’s office. Apparently the principal was the only one who got to work in a separate office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stepped up to the counter and nervously offered my license to her. “It’s Beau, actually.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave me a bemused look, and took the license from my hand, doing a few double takes between the picture on the card and my actual face. Something seemed to click into place for her because after a moment she once again said, “Oh! I see. Sorry about that. I seem to be the last one who hears things these days, but that’s just how it goes. Well, here are a few papers that need to be signed - let me get a new copy of this one, since you - well, your name, you know. Just a moment. And once you’re done with those we can take your picture for your school ID.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I signed everything that was in front of me, not bothering to read any of it. I knew what most of it was, and was suddenly eager to not be here for any longer than I had to. I did take a copy of the school code and policies off of a little rack of sad-looking pamphlets just in case I wanted to look it over later, but everything else was just putting my awkward cursive signature on the lines. Once everything had been completed to the woman’s satisfaction she picked up a tiny, cheap looking camera, and motioned for me to step over to one of the few spots on the walls that was just white paint and didn’t have some plaque or poster or graduating class photo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I tried to fix my hair into something that looked somewhat presentable but it was still mussed and damp from the rain, and I was certain that it was going to look terrible in the photo. My hair was too dark, especially when it was wet. I wasn’t very pale, but the dark color tended to make my skin look washed out and wane. Before I had cut my hair short, the only thing that had saved me from looking like a corpse was the bright red I tended to turn when embarrassed - or god forbid exercising - and the very, very faint freckles that I got when it was sunny for long enough. I was pretty sure those wouldn’t last here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, now you can have a seat, and I will print this out.” She ushered me to the chairs by the door and carried the camera over to a computer that had to be a decade old or more. “Give me ten minutes to get everything sorted and then you’ll be good to go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sat down hard in the uncomfortable blue plastic chair, and curled up with my phone to pass the time as the loud clacking of the mechanical keyboard filled the room. The time passed agonizingly slowly, especially since it looked like the signal on the school campus was turning out to be slightly spotty. Finally, the woman behind the counter stood up and handed over a freshly printed card that looked absolutely awful. My name and the school ID number printed on it were legible, but my picture and the school seal looked like blown up jpegs, despite being so small already. And just as I had worried, my face looked drawn and washed out. The only plus side to the picture was that my curls weren’t as messy as I had thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I got a few other things in addition to the ID, including an approximate schedule, which I was informed might change in the next week. Someone in the office usually in charge of schedules had been out of town for a couple weeks - ever since summer school had finished - but they were returning in two days, and so on. The last piece of paper I was handed was what looked like a hand-drawn map of the school that had been put through a copy machine a few times. At least it was legible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She informed me that this was usually something they gave out at freshman orientation. Students kept their ID for all four years, and were usually emailed their new schedule a month before class started, but since I was transferring in as a senior, this was all being done special for me. The explanation made me feel a little guilty. It kind of seemed like I had interrupted the brief amount of vacation time that the office admins got in between summer classes and the fall semester. I muttered a brief apology as I folded the papers and shoved everything into my wallet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I think that’s everything. Are you excited for school?” The woman clasped her hands in front of her and leaned on the counter, obviously looking for small talk. “Didn’t you fly in just yesterday?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhh,” I said, trying to decide if I had the energy to make polite conversation. “Yeah, actually. Yesterday morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure that was exciting for your mom.” She gave me a pointed look, but I didn’t have a clue as to what she was trying to say with the statement. “Your flight went okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I thought about the twenty minutes I’d spent going through security, about ready to lay down and have a panic attack at the slightest provocation, and the stress of wondering whether or not the TSA agents are simply looking at you because it's their job or if they’re staring because they think something is wrong. “It was good. I had to layover in Oakland, but it wasn’t too long of a wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s good that you decided to finish school.” She sighed and started to put away a few papers. “You’ll be a bit older than all the other seniors, but it shouldn’t be too bad. You should have waited until after you graduated to take a year off - a lot of kids put off college for a year or two.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I blinked at her, struggling to figure out if she was being rude or actually didn’t know why I had dropped out of high school for a year. “Kind of...hard to do school after surgery. Anyways, thanks for the help. I’m good to go, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave me a sideways look, but nodded. “Yes. School starts next Monday at eight, but try to be here early to check in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thanking her again, I slipped out of the hallway and hurried out of the school, stopping only when I hit the sidewalk and realized that it was still awhile before my mother would be back. I stared out across the street, contemplating the college campus there, and eventually decided against it. If the line of cars parked there was anything to go by, the college was far more likely to have people walking around in it, and I was quite done with fielding questions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, the dark clouds made it seem like early evening, even though it was still early morning. I sat down hard on the curb, already resolving to not take shelter in the school if it started to rain. After glancing at my phone, I realized that it hadn’t taken even ten minutes to finish with all of the silly school paperwork. Not feeling particularly hopeful, I pulled up the local bus routes on my phone. I had seen prior to moving that the closest bus route from my mother’s house to the school, required a good half hour of walking, a chunk of it through the wooded backroad residential areas, and had me arriving at the high school almost an hour before classes started. But that had also been because the number of buses were sparse, especially before eight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since it was a few minutes after, I was hopeful that I would find something nearby.  I trudged through the vague route maps, and found that if I hurried might be able to make it to a bus stop several blocks away. The trip altogether would probably take just as long as waiting here for my mother, but I was antsy and eager to get home instead of waiting around so I picked myself up and started off without thinking too hard about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I managed to save a few minutes by cutting through the school, jogging across the empty baseball diamond and past the fire station, and stepping back out onto the sidewalk on the other side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weirdest part about walking through Crescent City was the streets. There was just...too much room. All of the houses and buildings were so far away from the streets, with expansive lawns or just plain cement in between the sidewalks and them, and the streets were too wide. Off the top of my head, I couldn’t say if they were any bigger or smaller than the streets in LA, but it didn’t much matter because the width had no purpose here. In LA, the streets were clogged with cars, semis, and buses, but out here it was just empty. Every minute or so a car would drive past, but for the most part it was quiet and almost eerie. Walking here felt like whatever the opposite of claustrophobic was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I made it to the bus stop, though, and managed to put together a dollar in change, despite hardly ever carrying cash. The ride was pretty short, and I spent the entirety of it texting my mother to let her know that I was making my own way home. She did not reply. Not right away, anyhow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We arrived at what looked like some kind of community center, but considering most of the folk getting off of the bus looked fairly old, I wondered if it wasn’t a senior care facility. I hopped out quickly, drawing my jacket tighter around me and ignoring the odd looks that the folks on the bus gave me as I trudged a little ways back down the road we had come. I checked my phone as I walked, making sure that I was headed in the right direction and that it wasn’t in danger of dying on me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just this once, I thought, it’d be fine if I cut through the woods to get home. I wouldn’t make it a habit, honest, but I was very much not looking forward to the twenty minute walk to the house, along roads with no sidewalks and with the coastal winds chilling me to the bone. If I could at least get a couple blocks behind me, I’d be able to take cover from the wind in the bunches of thick forest here and there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I checked and double-checked my phone, and then mustered as much confidence as I was capable of, and started through the wet fields. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walk was not too bad, I decided after I had gotten through half of it. I had tripped over branches and stepped into a few too many holes that the long grass tended to disguise as flat land, and I was unutterably bored without music to listen to - since I needed to save my battery -, but at least it wasn’t dust and rock. I was bound to come out of this with grass-stained jeans, but I had fewer scrapes and cuts than I usually got on hikes back home. Better boots, however, would absolutely be a good investment. My current boots were cheap, and perfectly practical for walking on clean, flat sidewalks, but they weren’t going to last if I kept this up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I made my way across the flat land and then nervously crossed the wide, two-lane road that connected the more isolated residential areas to the main city, and finally made it into the trees. It wasn’t quite a relief to be in the woods, what with the ominous shadows and questionable creatures lurking within them, but it was nice to be out of sight from any rubbernecking drivers trying to figure out what the hell I was doing clomping around in this weather, and so poorly dressed. The way that the reedy grasses stuck to my wet boots and jeans had me convinced that I would come out on the other side of the woods looking exactly like the swamp thing, although definitely less...bulky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under the trees, the mist of rain coalesced into something slightly more substantial. Heavy raindrops dripped off of the canopy above me, and more than once seemed to land directly on the back of my neck and slide under my collar. The feeling was very similar to someone shoving an ice cube down your shirt, although after a few minutes of walking, I had to come to the surprising conclusion that my new jacket was actually keeping me warm. Despite the cold and rain, I wasn’t shivering at all. Apparently, despite both of us being oblivious to the trials and tribulations of actual weather, my dad and I had managed to pick out something decent. I just hoped that it would last, since it had been considerably more expensive than my usual winter fare; a nice, simple sweatshirt, and maybe a graphic or two on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After another ten minutes of stomping and tripping my way through the patch of wood, I made it out onto my mother’s block, totally intact. As I did, I must have suddenly stepped back into cell range, because my phone dinged four times in rapid succession. Shit, I hadn’t even noticed my service had disappeared. The GPS had worked fine, so I hadn’t given it a second thought. I sighed to myself and reluctantly pulled up the new text messages from my mother, bracing for anger or excessive concern. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>8:13 AM OK. Have some things to do at the station, will be home soon though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>8:13 AM Stay safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>8:24 AM Which bus did you take?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>8:39 AM Let me know that you’re safe…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. That wasn’t so bad. I couldn’t quite tell the tone of the last text, so I still might be in a little bit of trouble later on, but for the most part that was surprisingly forgiving. For all of her talk about getting me a car and keeping me from walking to and from school, she didn’t seem particularly angry. It was just the first week though. I had only been in town for a day, so maybe she was trying to be nice. I texted her a quick reply letting her know that I was just down the road from the house, and tucked my phone back in my pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few moments later I was at the porch, shuffling up to the door and fumbling with the key that I had been given, when I heard the very distinct sound of something falling and shattering, coming from around the side of the house. I froze, my hand on the doorknob, straining to hear anything else in the hopes of hearing my mother’s voice. Nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mother wasn’t a clutz, nor very accident-prone, unlike myself. I had inherited my tendency to run into walls and doorways, and knock over anything not nailed down, from my dad, but my mother had always been quick on her feet. Probably why she did well as a police officer. Thinking that I would find a grounded bird or opossum getting into the potted plants, I left my key in the door and wandered around to the left of the house, where the “backyard” was. It was really more like a side yard considering the house curved around it in such an odd way, but we still called it the backyard, since there was only forest looming in the proper back of the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I peered around the corner of the house. “Hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No response, except something else in the yard falling and clattering on the stone path way that led into my mother’s garden area. This time it sounded like metal falling, instead of ceramic or terracotta, and I hurried forwards, thinking of the number of heavy metal items that could fall and hurt someone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mother’s garden was arranged in a neat little circle around a very small, very simple gazebo, just big enough for two people to sit down in. Growing against the aging gazebo, now dusted with moss, were the pretty and aromatic plants like lilacs and lavenders, as well as a vine plant or two. Then there was a simple stone pathway, which separated the pretty plants from the produce plants. She had large planters with a variety of tomatoes and pea plants, held up by those odd little ladders they grew against, interspersed with lines of carrots and herbs. I liked the garden, although it could get to be a bit too pungent in spring. Since it was turning to autumn, many of the tomatoes had already been picked over, and were beginning to wilt. It was one of these plants whose metal ladder had taken a spill onto the path, and the dirt around it looked like something had taken to digging in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I took a few more steps around the gazebo, looking for the culprit or for the source of the original shattering sound, and found a spider plant that had very clearly been knocked down from the railing of the gazebo. I sighed and knelt down, picking some of the larger pieces off pottery off the path, clearing the worst of it away before I got up to find a broom and a replacement pot for the plant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I did a little spin, cradling the pieces in my hands, and trying to remember where my mother’s little storage bin full of garden tools was. Something caught my eye, as I did so, and I spotted a small shape in the gazebo, mostly hidden behind an ancient rosemary that my mother had inherited from the previous owner. I froze, not sure if I should set down the trash that I was carrying first or if I should check out what seemed to be a small furry creature hiding in our garden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment of hesitation, I quietly put down the pottery pieces, trying not to startle whatever was there, and shuffled over to the gazebo steps. It only had two, plain wooden steps and the whole thing was quite bare bones in the railing, so despite my attempt at stealth, as soon I moved past the rosemary bush, I was spotted by bright, golden brown eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a dog. I had clearly misjudged its size, as it had to be only a little smaller than a husky, but definitely scrawnier, since it had managed to curl up into an impressively small circle. Presumably to avoid being seen, but we had spotted each other. We stared at each other in surprise, as I took in the pale, almost beige-colored fur, darkened by the rain. There were also streaks of brown through it, but most of it seemed to be from the dirt that had gotten into. I could see a trail of muddy pawprints on the steps, and circling around the inside of the gazebo, stark against the white painted wood. I gawked at the dog, and it stared back, its expression totally unreadable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly my brain caught up to the situation, and in a rush, came up with several different ideas for taking care of this dog. Calling animal control, for one, although I’d have to sit out here in the cold with it while I waited. Alternatively, I could call my mother. I was sure she had some experience with animal wrangling, and she would almost certainly know if the dog belonged to someone. At the very least, she would have access to pet licenses, and so on. I would still have to wait for her to get here, though, especially if she decided it wasn’t an emergency. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you friendly?” I asked, keeping my tone as light and gentle as possible. It looked cold, covered in mud and hiding from the rain, but I was afraid that it would run off if I tried to get a towel for it. I couldn’t let it run back into the woods, if that’s where it had come from, so I held out my hand to it, trying to gauge its reaction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dog just stared, flicking its long ears when I spoke, and doing very little else. I stepped up into the gazebo, convinced that it wasn’t going to bite me, and patted its head while it yawned. I did a cursory check for any injuries or anything wrong with the dog, but I wasn’t a veterinarian, so I couldn’t offer anything definitive other than that I couldn’t find any open wounds. Perhaps that it looked a little on the thin side, but if it was a stray and living out in the woods, then it could have looked a lot worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” I sighed, “you could do with a wash, but you seem like a nice dog. I guess I should call animal control.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looked at me, head tilting a little as I pulled out my phone, in a way that made it seem like it was listening to me, and then it snorted in my face. Still, I continued to pet him as I dialed my mother, and listened to the line ring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fairly quickly, she picked up. “Harrier.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Beau -” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m at home right now, I’m safe,” I started, trying to clear any concerns up first, before addressing the current situation, “but there’s a weird dog in our backyard. I don’t know the number for animal control, so I thought I’d call and ask what you want to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just around the corner, so I’ll be home in a few minutes, but uh...what does the dog look like?” I half-listened to my mother as she spoke, but the dog was starting to get up, shaking itself off as I tried to keep it still. “Joana’s dog sometimes gets under the fence, and they live a couple miles south of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It slipped past me, leaping over the steps and landing nimbly on the path. “Uh, like a medium to large dog, kinda beige. Maybe some kind of shepherd mix but it’s skinny. It doesn’t have a collar. Hey, come back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dog just shook itself, ignoring me and then skulking off through the garden. I hurried to follow, switching the call to speaker so that I could open the camera app on my phone. If the dog was just going to run off, then the least I could do was take a picture of it. Maybe it would help someone find it again. I fumbled with my phone, trying to keep track of the dog as it jogged towards the treeline, and managed to snap a couple of pictures as I walked after it. The dog disappeared completely as the sound of the truck engine approached, and I got one last picture of just its tail poking out from the shadows. “Dammit. He ran off. He’s really sweet though, I think the car scared him. He knocked over some stuff in the garden, but he let me pet him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mom made a slight disapproving sound. “You shouldn’t approach strange dogs, Beau. You never know what might happen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know.” I trudged back through the garden and met my mother at the corner of the house, and we both hung up. “Sorry, it looks like he broke one of your pots - the little spider bush plant. With the long leaves? And the thing for one of your tomato plants. Do you want to see the pictures I took? I don’t know if they’re any good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” She wasn’t dressed in her uniform, since she had just dropped by her work. Instead, she had a nice blouse on, and a simple leather jacket over it. She pulled her hair down out of a ponytail as she waited for me to find the best one, and then traded me my keys that I had left in the door, for my phone. I pocketed the keys as she squinted down at the screen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment of silence, and her glancing between me and my phone, apparently in disbelief, she finally handed the phone back. “Beau...I’m not sure that’s a dog. Go ahead and text me the pictures, if you can, but it almost looks like a coyote.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A coyote?” I scoffed at her, looking over the pictures myself. I didn’t know very much about the difference between dogs and coyotes, but I couldn’t imagine a coyote sitting in a cramped gazebo, letting me pet it. I shook my head. “Come on, that was not a coyote. It was way too nice. Aren’t coyotes supposed to be skittish? And nocturnal? There’s no way that’s a coyote.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mother laughed and patted me on the shoulder, but ushered me back to the front door as she did. The touch was comforting. “Alright, alright, it could be a mix. Or a dog, who knows? I’d have to see it up close, or let a vet take a look at it, but it looks a little too feral if you ask me. If it was a coyote, maybe it was just hungry enough to let you pet it. You didn’t feed it, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not,” I grumbled, offended. I was an adult. I knew how to act around strange animals...for the most part. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She seemed comforted. “Good. If it’s wild, we don’t want it hanging around.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about your garden?” I asked, as we stepped onto the porch. “I was cleaning stuff up when I saw the dog. There’s broken pieces everywhere.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I ordered some breakfast to be delivered while I was at the station, it should be here in a few minutes.” She kicked her boots off and left them on the porch. “Let’s eat first and then we’ll go clean up.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter 1 trigger warnings:<br/>accidental deadname/misgendering of MC</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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